Tact
by Subtle Insanity
Summary: Act 1 of 6. The bonds I hold with my comrades are the strings that allow me to guide them to victory. Trust, which serves as the resumé of all advisors, is merely protocol, but reputation isn't my prime concern- something that may very well be my undoing.
1. The First Step

Yes: Those who have noticed this story's reappearance would know that this is the very first piece I had devoted myself to. What brought me to revive this tale, I wonder? Inspiration? Obligation? Maybe a most bewildering affliction of boredom? I wish I could say. I _do_ know why I had first written this piece, though; this is technically where my writing "legacy" had begun.

I intend to take this to its melancholy end, even if I have to do so from beyond the grave; unfinished works just aren't my style (anymore).

* * *

Tact

Act 1: The Crossed Paths of Traitors

Those who do deeds of any nature most likely follow the saying "actions speak louder than words". While there's not much room for disagreement, this must be said: a person's communication skills aren't always weaker than his or her "performances". There may be truth to the belief that actions define the character, but that alone cannot solidify certain opinions on oneself.

_Greeting others_. _Giving thanks_. _Confessing love_. These are examples which a simple bow, a curt nod, nor even a heartfelt gesture can substitute the utterances of "Good morning", "Thank you", or "I love you", respectably. Forgive me for an awkward metaphor, but whereas actions can dispel the shadows of doubt, words can erect a permanent Light Rune onto the center of their convergence.

I may be biased in defending words. My occupation, which requires me to utter, whisper, signal, and yell- and even in the crudest sense, _bark, howl, and screech_- orders, may have played some part in influencing my stance. I may just be undoing my own efforts with this baseless quip. I must point out, though, that everything known to man is subjective; it's just that whatever possesses the cleanest, most flowery logic is taken as fact.

_Tact_. In the English language, it is defined as the mastery of speech necessary to avoid offending another person. When building trust with someone- a complete stranger, an ally, or even an _enemy_- tact is the one aspect of a person that can control the sway of his or her audience's affinity. Taking this to its plausible extremes, it may either rally all concerned parties into one unified power or disperse them into tiny little fractions where they bicker over every last detail- a sad thing to witness, a disgustingly despicable thing to _create_; in a way, tact is much, _much_ more than just part of the word "tactician".

A tactician's job, when whittled to its most basic of outlines, is to guide his or her comrades to countless victories while causing as few casualties as possible; "zero", being the score of both a novice and a master, is most definitely a double-edged sword. If anyone has any sense of tact _whatsoever_, they will never, _ever_, _**ever**_ call a dedicated (key word here) tactician a _strategist_. Sure, there are strategists who double as tacticians and vice-versa, but if a dedicated tactician hears such a faux pas (which is an unfortunate inevitability, mind you), a bystander can almost _hear_ the infernal sounds of insides twisting in annoyance and anger.

Why exactly, you'd ask? I don't know myself, to be perfectly honest here, but I think it relates to the humorous- if slightly degrading- names slung between advisors:

For tacticians, the uncompromising, ever-unsure ninnies we are, we're "Tacks".

For strategists, the long-winded, droll bores they are, they're "Gistless".

In any case, a tactician- as well as any occupation- _knows_ the importance of trust between co-workers, hence the absolutely _mandatory_ interaction with comrades; trust me, the seemingly anti-social ones? Oh, how wrong that generalization is- they had taken the job knowing full well what it had required of them!

Since this description is dangerously close to creating the assumption of idealistic "buddy-buddy" situations between co-workers, I am also obligated to add this in: though mercenaries have to entrust their lives to us tacticians, we entrust more than just our own lives in exchange; our _reputations_, the very factor that determines our ability to stay in the business, are at stake. One slip-up, and we can kiss our careers goodbye. It will be the equivalent of a dishonorable discharge, and all those nice little benefits from our organization will vanish faster than a dragon slain by a Divine Weapon. Therefore, while "playing nice" is recommended, the tiniest sliver of mutual trust is all that's necessary for positive feedback.

Well, I believe I should save the rest of my explanations for a later time; otherwise, the intro-to-intention ratio will be too great. As for the organization explanation, I shall save that part for next time.

* * *

The First Step

_Ah, passant... I _knew_ that warp powder was still unstable. Damn those sadist tinkerers..._ Beads of sweat trickled from his forehead as his breathing retained its shakiness. Despite his attempts to will his body into enduring the burden, it still resisted, sending jolts of pain with each sluggish step.

"Hey, Mark, are you _sure_ you're alright?" a girl with long, green hair asked him as they walked beside each other over the grassy hills, sensing his discomfort in keeping two large drawstring pouches aloft.

"Never better, Lady Lyn..." he responded with a hint of grim honesty. "My legs just like to think they lack knees, is all." Indeed, his walking pattern was no different than that of a stilt-walker.

Then again, wearing a _dark green_ cloak during a _scorching_ day should have been a telltale sign of his masochism.

Two and a half days had passed since the fateful meeting between the lone Lorca tribeswoman and the fool who had finally figured out the proper use of warp powder- a parting gift from his organization's Craftlord division- to reach his destination. The usage of the powder had depended on its distribution; when it had properly depicted a circle, it would teleport the user to their destination of choice, but the slightest derivation (intentional or otherwise) would merely send the soul to said area while the body, still back at the starting point, collapsed from spiritual exhaustion. Needless to say, either method still put great strain on the user; he had been unfortunate enough to botch it _twice_ and still be breathing!

He had spent the morning of his beyond-idiotic mishap frolicking in dreamland before finding himself under the care of the plains nomad. Introductions had been in order, along with a display of each other's strengths for a common goal, thanks to the catalyst of Batta the Beast (and his silent friend) raiding a nearby ger. The following morning (after the latter pair had been subdued and the powder's backlash had come for round two), she had asked to accompany him on his travel to become a full-fledged tactician. After letting her do as she pleased, he had helped her pack any essentials before departing alongside her the next day. Now, as high noon passed silently, they found themselves heading to Bulgar in order to acquire more supplies and seek a proper mission.

"Lady Lyn, let's talk about something- _anything_. This silence is unnerving," Mark begged as they continued their walk.

"Hm... alright. I forgot to ask this last night, so I may as well do so now. Why do you refer to me as 'Lady Lyn' and 'milady'? I noticed that you had never called me just 'Lyn' after I had given you my name, not even in the midst of battle. Why is that?"

"Good observation, milady." He shifted the weight on his back to give it a brief respite. "To tell the truth, I had been taught to show the utmost respect towards anyone and everyone, if only for a slight boost to my reputation."

"'The most important trait of the tactician' you told me about, correct?"

His eyes widened in surprise. "Why, yes! That's right. I'm actually amazed you remembered it, milady!"

The previous night, after they had completed preparations, Lyn had inquired Mark about the aspects of his occupation, to which he had agreed in exchange for learning the culture of the Lorca. Fascinated by each other's details, they had spent most of the night comparing the similarities between each other's knowledge, as well as debating some of the more... questionable items.

"And just _what_ are you suggesting by that?" she huffed.

The fool caught himself, the deed already done. "A slip of the tongue... my deepest apologies. It's just that our conversation last night had been so lengthy that I had feared most of it would be forgotten just as swiftly." He admitted that his own mind wasn't as fine-tuned before continuing his explanation. "Over time, the title-dropping became a habit of _subservience_ for myself. Does it irk you, milady?"

"Well..." She hesitated, unsure if her answer would offend him, before replying. "It actually does, to tell the truth."

Such an unexpected response had sent him into a brief moment of stupor. "Explain, please?"

"You may not have realized it, but the best way for us to work together is if we consider each other as _equals_- not as master and servant."

Her memory recalled the assault of the Taliver: how her father, the Lorca chieftain, had secured an escape route for her and their people while he delayed the bandits' advance, how the tribesmen had dismissed her offer to lead them for tradition's sake...

"By giving people more respect than necessary, you are unknowingly offending them. _You_ are a tactician: a person who needs to assert his authority in order to maintain control of his troops... unless what you had told me that night was a lie?"

_By Lady Elimine, she's sharp!_ "Even so, too much assertion leads to dissent. Besides, if _you_ haven't realized, this habit is my first step towards evaluating future approaches-"

"So you distrust your companions from the start?" she interjected. "Is _that_ what you think is proper form for a greeting-?"

"Do realize," Mark countered, "that the employed is prone to siding with the person who offers the most money!"

One too many times had he read reports of advisors who had been bribed with double, triple, _quadruple_ their initial pay and, consumed by their own greed, sided with the enemy, only to be slain by the instigators themselves for their moment of weakness. Not only were their corpses tossed aside like fecal matter, but the organization had also disavowed them for such dishonorable conduct. Needless to say, their actions faded into obscurity, but they had been the _lucky_ ones.

"Unlike _some_ of my fellow co-workers, _I_ had chosen to shower friend and foe alike with respect, even if I would get paid _nothing_!" he roared. "_They_, in their selfishness, lost sight of the true goal and treated everyone they knew like refuse, furthered only their own agendas, and did other stupid things- whoa!" His impassioned rebuttal made him forget about the actual weight on his shoulders, causing it- along with a particularly strong gust of wind- to push him into the wavering grass.

"Mark!" She tried to grab the weight before he hit the ground, but it was a moment too late- his face already made an imprint in the dirt, the load now crushing his head and cutting off his oxygen supply.

"Mmph! Mmph!" He waved his arms wildly, obviously in great discomfort. He attempted to push the pouches off, but his panicked state was scattering his concentration.

She pushed aside the weight and shifted him onto his back. "Are you alright?"

He coughed a bit, spitting out pebbles and blades of grass, before exhaling deeply in order to regain his composure. "Never better, thanks," he replied shakily as he gave a weak smile. "I think 'klutz' describes me just a bit _too_ well, don't you think?"

She chuckled. "I guess so. Should we divide the weight?"

"I guess we should." After they redistributed the essentials evenly into the two pouches, Mark continued his rant, now more sensibly calm. "Anyway, about my... questionable companions. Do you want to know what happened to them?"

"Only if you feel I need to know," she responded as she hoisted up her share of the weight.

"A proper response." He lifted up the remaining load. "They're still alive... but only barely."

"'Barely'?"

"You know the saying 'See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil'?"

"Yes, I've heard of it."

"Well, the organization decided that my colleagues needed to learn it the _hard_ way."

The rotted oaken chair the traitors had been forced onto, the sinewy ropes their limbs had been restrained with, the sedative their bodies had been injected with to null the shock creeping into their faces... not only had he, the Craftlord leaders' sole slave, been responsible for their maintenance, but he was also the last person the condemned had been granted as company.

Before temporarily removing their ability to feel pain, he had listened to their last requests and had done his utmost to fulfill them; some- such as the delivery of a final message to a loved one- had been heart-wrenching, while others- like the serving of a last meal or the possession of a bauble- had been so simple at first glance that only when he had read their accounts later on would he realize how significant the subjects of the requests had been to the requesting.

Once he had granted their wishes, he would leave their company and lock the door after his superiors had guided him out. Since he had not the authority to witness the method of the condemnation, he could not say what had transpired next.

"After the procedure was done, they had to be escorted out. Since simple execution left too much of a mess, it had been out of the question, and the organization's secrets still had to be safeguarded. They were rendered blind... deaf... mute..."

The thought of being disabled beyond reason had made her instinctively gasp in horror. "Oh, Mother Earth and Father Sky... That's... inhumane-"

"What's _inhumane_ is suffering the rest of your days with only the senses of smell, taste, and touch," he added. "To witness only the veil of darkness swallowing you whole, to hear only the sound of Lightning spells locking onto your frail body, to be denied the privilege of screaming your last and only _mouthing_ your absolute despair... Being 'Sensebound' is a torture even hell itself would refrain from using." He made a heavy sigh. "This is why I address you as such: to remind myself of my duties, lest _I_ fall to such depths. After all, one cannot see the pit if he's looking at the skies."

Hearing the details of Mark's obligations gave Lyn an understanding of his steadfastness to his habits, if only a minuscule bit. "...I see," she slowly managed to say, the shock still too great. "Forgive me-"

"The fault is all mine," he interjected. "It was my decision to give you those morbid details, so if it's alright with you, let us never speak of this for a good long while... Lyn."

She noticed the loss of the title and knew that, for that one moment, he had dropped his servant act and had wanted her to do something- not as an order from advisor to soldier but as a request from one equal to another, from one _friend_ to another. "Of... of course." They nodded to each other, a silent agreement to keep whatever had transpired here hidden away in the corners of their hearts.

As the sun was glaring down on the duo, the road to Bulgar had never seemed so long.

* * *

My tongue has dulled since then, but the sharpness it had held that day still scars my lips.


	2. A Battlefield He'd Never Approach

Every occupation needs some form of "corner-cutting" to achieve a goal, whether it be exceptional strength, clever wit, or a certain intensity of optimism that can outshine the moon. For those who feel they possess no such abilities (or are merely vigilant enough to ask for insurance), there's always necessity's offspring: tools. Since I had previously used my- sorry,_ the_ occupation of the tactician as my example, allow me to continue with the "divulging" of the inner workings.

After much rigorous mentoring, the organization conducts a monthly, extensive evaluation of their students' skills; anyone who manages to succeed gets to enjoy a few days of relaxation before beginning the westward journey known as the "Shadow's Retreat"- the meaning behind that title, I will omit for now. During the festivities which honor the victorious- and believe me, the organization knows how to throw a party- the apprentice tacticians of the bunch, who have now _earned_ that title, report to the Craftlord area to claim their gear.

Said place is interesting in its own right; the rooms are packed with shelves, which consequently are overflowing with books- tomes, schematics, accounts, and the like- crates are stacked from the floor to the second-story ceiling, and the only two items that definitely appear out-of-place are a large bed and a four-slotted rack of staves in the far corner. The bed displays an unusual design: the striped sheets, bordered in a light gold color, have only four actual stripes, each a shade of brown, blue, red, and green, respectively, and the pillows are aligned alongside them in both position and hue. The staves, color-coded in both shaft and jewel in the latter three shades, are arranged in the same order, fastened to the wall by metal rings, the same kind that allows spears to stand point-up and upright; for some reason, though the rack is designed to hold _four_ staves, I've only seen it occupy three at most, and even then, the first spot had always been vacant. I've had the (mis)fortune of meeting the owners of those very weapons that apparently also sleep in that very bed- _no_, it's not what you think, so take your vile thoughts elsewhere. I, myself, wish they would see me in that light, though- oh, you meant that _other_ thought, in which case, you're truly depraved.

The first Craftlord, the dutiful second-in-command known as Eria the Sapphire, has azure eyes and long hair of matching color that reaches her waist; thin pigtails, bound by small strings, branch from it as strands run down both sides of her face. She wears the Craftlords' signature thin, hooded light-brown jacket and wide matching sash over her vertically-striped, short-sleeved light-green blouse and short, pleated black skirt, fingerless brown gloves covering her hands.

Her younger sister and fellow Craftlord, the fiery, short-tempered Hiita the Ruby, has crimson eyes and short, wavy hair of matching color. Though she, too, wore the jacket and belt, the rest of her wear is quite different from her sister's; the short-sleeved white shirt over her seemingly-tight black skirt has many little buttons, but she chooses to close up only the first few from the bottom, exposing her bare abdomen. The only piece that keeps her _chest_ from being exposed as well is the black brassiere she wears over the shirt. The pinkish stockings she has on only serves to add to her "daring" appearance.

The last Craftlord I know, their aloof youngest sister Wynn the Emerald, had clover-colored eyes and medium-length, slightly-unkempt fern-green hair, the backside tied into a nicely-made ponytail with a long, thin forest-green ribbon. She, too, wears the Craftlord attire, but her own clothes give off a (thankfully) more conservative look than that of Hiita's, with a second jacket- its own color complimenting her features- under the first and mostly covering her white sleeveless shirt and black skirt.

The reason I say _mis_fortune is because, being the only ones responsible for (and _capable of_) handling the division, the trio is allowed almost complete control of their developments: materials, methods, and _subjects_- the last of which I say with disgust. Many a poor fool had been sent through those welcoming doors, only to flee in _absolute fear_ after the appointment had been over and done with. I had become friends with them solely because _I hadn't known any better and had come back out of respect_; said escapades will be saved for a later time.

Unceremoniously handed to apprentice tacticians are: a forest-green cloak to symbolize their freelance status- this differs from the beige cloak given to apprentice _strategists_- a small pouch of warp powder for one-man transportation, a map of Elibe with the organization's location and a destination to reach already marked on it, a specially-crafted bottle of nigh-infinite ink for writing purposes, a feather quill acquired from the wing of a pegasus for basic writing needs as well as the acquisition of signatures, and last- but certainly not least- a leather-bound journal to remind them of the "Advisors' Code" and document the legacy they would soon make, all nicely packaged in a sufficiently-sized drawstring pouch for storage.

Last time, I had told you of the risk a tactician takes when accepting missions. The journal is the "physical evidence" of one's reputation which must regularly be reported to the organization. Failure to do so- whether the obstacle had been theft, arson, laziness, or any other rationalization- results in a ruined career, so the journal is an advisor's _life_; acquiring a replacement is not possible. On the inside covers and the first few pages are the general rules of conduct towards oneself and others, while the rest are a slew of blank pages for the tactician's own use: contracts, profiles, and day-to-day logs which must be documented. The only item needed to verify a contract is an appropriate signature by the willing contractor made with the feather quill, the functions behind the verification process all thanks to the Craftlords.

My intro seems to have gotten even longer, so I can only hope the ratio balances itself out somehow...

* * *

A Battlefield He'd Never Approach

_"I, Tactician Mark Passant, do solemnly swear-" N__o, this isn't a wedding vow..._ The point of his quill periodically poked the surface of the liquid in his bottle. _"The lady Lyndis has requested the aid of this-" Too formal..._ He stared absently towards the lit fireplace at the far wall. _"On the evening of...! Of..." Wait, what was today's date?_ "Master Sain, what's today?" he asked as he turned to his brown-haired acquaintance, who was already chugging down a mug of ale.

The knight slammed his glass onto the counter before exhaling deeply. "Ah, what a good drink!" Noticing the stare of his new comrade, he added, "Sorry, did you say something?"

"Ah... never mind," he said as he waved a hand. _I'll just write up the contract when my head's clearer..._ Sipping water from his cup, he bookmarked the supposed journal page of his contract with his now-dry quill before closing it.

It was the evening after the run-in in Bulgar between the wanderers, the Caelin knights, and the laughably-amateur assassins. After an improper first impression, a baseless threat, a temporary agreement, a quick battle, a startling revelation, and a revised vow, the quartet, exhausted from the clash, had decided to rest in the city before heading out the next day. Though Lyn and Kent had immediately retired for the night, Sain, knowing that they would leave first thing at dawn, had decided to woo the local ladies at the nearby tavern, dragging the advisor- whose worry for writing a proper record had been keeping him awake- along with him. Now, as the crashing of drinks rang out in celebration, chatter rose in volume, and the fireplace crackled with vigor, the duo found themselves spending a somewhat-pleasant evening with their empty glasses.

As a blonde-haired woman, with long flowing locks accentuating her fair face and a seductive figure, walked behind the counter and put away the dirty mugs her arms had been carrying, she noticed the empty glass near the knight. "More ale, good sir?"

"Why, yes, o gracious angel!" he exclaimed in his slightly-tipsy state. After she filled his glass almost to the brim with a nearby jug, the cavalier said, "A thousand graces upon thee, lovely maiden... though your presence alone has rejuvenated my spirit!"

She chuckled lightly. "Oh, you."

"I truly mean it! You are Elimine reborn, sent here to wash away others' weariness and capture their hearts- a dazzling spectacle to behold!"

_She's enjoying this,_ Mark thought to himself as the tavern mistress gave his companion a content smile, _though I can _clearly_ do better._

"I have an idea, Sir Knight," she addressed Sain. "Let's play a game. If you win-" her tone now more sultry- "I'll let you compliment me _all night long_..."

Before his companion, whose eyes had already beamed with delight, could jump onto the offer, the tactician asked her, "And if _you_ win, milady?"

"Hm..." She rubbed her chin. "Since I need to close up early, if _I_ win... then loverboy here has to help me clean up for the night instead."

"I see..." Mark drummed his fingers on his journal. "Master Sain-"

"I accept your challenge!" he exclaimed almost immediately.

The tactician, now unable to warn his comrade of the risk, pulled his head back in mock-surprise before pulling the hood of his cloak over himself. "Ugh... Your funeral. Good luck," he meekly wished him.

"Alright, then!" She pulled out two other jugs and a small glass, all unused. "If I can finish my three jugs of ale before you can finish this one glass-" she shook the item in her right hand- "I win; otherwise, victory is yours."

"Sounds simple enough," Sain quipped. "Any rules before we begin?"

"Just three," she said as she began filling up the drinks. "First, the game will start after I finish one jug and place it on the counter because I like to _enjoy_ my drink first. Second, _until_ the game starts, you're not allowed to ready yourself by touching your own glass. Finally, we're not allowed to touch each _other's_ drinks because I want to prevent distractions _and_ I don't like wasting profit."

"That's fair," he spoke as he nodded in understanding.

Already noticing the shapes of the jugs and glass and the _gaping_ loophole in the rules, Mark whispered to Sain, "This is a trap, foolish knight. I'm warning you- _back out_."

Though her ears were sharp enough to pick up the message, she pretended to ignore it. "Last chance, o _courageous_ one. It's not too late to concede; I won't count it as a loss."

"A knight _never_ breaks a vow!" he exclaimed.

"Wise words..." she uttered before bringing the first jug to her lips.

"I can't bear to watch this..." Mark moaned as he covered his eyes with his hand, though he was still peeking at the incoming disaster. _That is, without laughing my head off._

Swig after swig, she gulped down her ale, which entranced her opponent (and was about to do the same to the bystander), until the last drop touched her lips. Then, as the true game was about to start, she gently placed her empty container onto the wooden counter's surface... upside-down and over her foe's.

Due to his dizzy state, it took the knight a few seconds to comprehend his situation as the woman continued drinking from her jugs. "Wait. Have I just been-"

"Swindled, yes," Mark finished, his hood covering his silent chuckling. "Horribly, at that. Tough luck, my good man. I warned you, but you _had_ to bring up the golden rule of the knights. Good job."

Mouth agape and rendered speechless, the tricked knight could do nothing more than stare at his imprisoned glass- at his oh-so-close, yet oh-so-very-very-far-away reward- as the blonde finished her last jug.

"Phew! Nothing like a drink after- or, should I say, _during_- a victory." As she put away the empty containers, she asked her still-dumbfounded opponent, "A knight _never_ breaks a vow, right?"

He gulped to rid himself of that unusual dry feeling in his throat. "Y-yes, mi-"

Neither stupefied Sain nor surprised Mark had expected what happened next: the tavern mistress had leaned over the counter and given the former a kiss- and when she had pulled back, the tactician could have _sworn_ there was tongue involved. "A consolation prize for being a good sport," she said. "By the way, my name's Rita, loverboy," she added, winking at him before attending to her other customers.

Touching his lips, Sain uttered one word: "Wow..."

"Damn it, Master Sain," the tactician cursed, "I bet I've been swindled much more often than you have, and I've _never_ gotten something like that!"

This snapped him out of his shock. "Wait, _you_ think you've wooed more women than me?"

"Well, I know these triplets-"

Grabbing Mark's cloak with both hands, Sain whispered, "You _must_ tell me about it!"

The rest of the night passed by quite quickly as the knight and his new "boon" companion talked about their experiences with women. Eventually...

"Well, loverboy," Rita yelled out after bidding her last group of customers a pleasant evening, "It's time to fulfill your end of the bargain!"

"-and then, she slapped me right in the cheek!" The knight pointed to the exact spot of his subject's rage before hearing the blonde. "As you command, Lady Rita!" he responded before starting to put away chairs.

"Bah, that's nothing compared to a three-point jab to the gut!" the tactician countered. "By the way, Lady Rita," he yelled to the owner, "do you mind if I help my friend out as well?"

"Do whatever you want," she replied.

Sain turned his head towards Mark. "Are you sure?"

As he tucked his journal into the inner folds of his cloak, the tactician answered, "What are friends for?" before hoisting up a chair. "Besides, I'm not done telling my stories!"

* * *

The next day, the refreshed knight and nomadic princess wondered why their two comrades acted so exhausted...

* * *

I'll never understand women; they're _way_ too much of a hassle.


	3. Unfaltering Loyalty

Built long before the bloodbath known as the Scouring, the organization was made as a response to the ever-growing complexity of war: when battles on foot had also begun to take to the seas and skies, when steel had found itself allied with and clashing against spell, when honor between opponents had given way to unceremonious death dealt by unreachable assailants. Divided into three occupations- strategists, tacticians, and Craftlords- its mission was- and still is- to reasonably control the aspects of the battlefield while protecting those who had no dealings with the warring factions. For it to sustain itself, it naturally requires the offering of their services to anyone with sufficient coin, leading to colleagues finding each other at opposing sides- eerily similar to the Ilian mercenary faction's own policy.

_"Do what is required,_

_And do that job well._

_Dying without trying_

_Sends thy soul to hell."_

_-Poem from the "Advisors' Code"_

Being taken under the organization's wing means keeping your relationships with your classmates purely professional; any higher standard would invite despair. Sure, there's the occasional acquaintance or budding romance, but it requires a _lot_ of luck to grow old alongside them; the chances of not engaging a relative, friend, or lover throughout one's _entire career_ is slim to none.

Alas, though we advisors swear fealty to our employers until our contracts are void, our true allegiance lies with the organization, not because it had provided food, shelter, and knowledge to us or protection to our families, but also because the only alternative to entering this war-infested world as a puppeteer with choices is to enter it as a puppet without them.

It appears I don't have as much to introduce today. Maybe it's divine intervention for last time. Maybe I don't have as much detail that could relate to the upcoming interaction. Maybe I've just getting old...

* * *

Unfaltering Loyalty

_Curses... The chills just won't cease..._ Determined to fight the non-existent wind as he walked across the wavering grass, he shielded his face with the hood of his cloak as he hugged its folds closer to himself, to no avail. _Gah, my body might be abnormal, but this is _ridiculous_..._

Earlier that day, the quartet had reached the resting place of the Mani Katti as per Lyn's request. After an attempted theft, a plea for assistance, destruction of property, a sound thrashing given to Glass and his entourage, and the acquisition of one spirit-forged blade, the woman who had asked for their aid had offered them her home to recuperate in as thanks. Now, as his comrades were regaining their strength and the sun was sinking into the landscape, the tactician decided to analyze the shrine once more.

_That _Mani Katti's_ hiding something,_ he pondered to himself as he walked towards the opening the others had previously made at his command, the damage to the foundation still as raw as ever. _I felt it in my bones!

* * *

_

_"Think of it this way: some weapons feel more comfortable in your hand, right?" Sain explained as Lyn was examining the sword- her sword- in her hand. "Well, the Mani Katti itself feels very comfortable with you. Does this make it any easier for you to accept?"_

_Seeing Lyn's still-puzzled expression, Mark suggested, "Maybe if the rest of us hold the blade and prove to you why we can't use it ourselves...?"_

_She gave a slight nod before gently handing the weapon to the red-armored cavalier, as if it was a newborn ready to cry at the slightest disturbance._

_Gripping the handle, Kent tried his best to make it comfortable in his grip, but the disapproving look he was making said it all._

_"May I?" Mark asked, holding out his hands._

_No sooner had Kent given it to him than voices spoke into his ear._

Corrupted soul, thou shalt not defile this blade's shine with thy rotted hands...

What in blazes...?_ he thought to himself as a freezing sensation overtook him, aware that screaming his head off and dropping the sword on the ground right then and there would more than likely earn him weird looks from his comrades._

Thy very existence poisons us, the guardians of this sacred weapon. Begone!

_Uninterested in causing more trouble, he swiftly passed the sword to the brown-haired knight, playing off the shock on his face by faking a laceration he had supposedly made on his hand with the weapon's edge._

_Doing the same procedure his dutiful friend had done, Sain quipped, "It doesn't appear that either of us can use it," before giving it back to its rightful owner._

_Holding it once more, she could sense the comfortable grip a bit better, probably thanks to her ally's explanation. "It... does feel right in my hand," Lyn confirmed. "A blade that only I can wield."_

* * *

Since the quartet- mostly the armed trio, really- had dealt with the danger, he could fully appreciate the structure of the ruined area this time. Light-brown reflected off every surface inside. Sturdy pillars, with imposts possessing snake designs, supported the roof. Human-shaped statues of an origin completely unknown to him stood on both sides of the now-swordless altar. Remnants of dried blood- Glass's, most likely- still stained the pedestal of the sword of spirits.

What caught the advisor's attention, though, was the lozenge shape that surrounded the slot where the Mani Katti used to rest. Four faded circles of slightly-distinct colors sat at its corners.

"That's an odd picture..." he whispered to himself, wanting to break the eerie silence the shrine was giving off. "Wait a minute... Where have I seen that?" Approaching the altar, he brushed off the dust that had accumulated over the pattern.

With the dust gone, the circles were revealed to be gems, along with arrows on the lozenge's edges that depicted a clockwise motion. From the noon position and following the arrows, the surfaces of topaz, ruby, blue sapphire, and emerald shone in the moonlight.

_Huh. Interesting... but I still can't recall it. Maybe I'm going senile-_

The sound of approaching footsteps suddenly echoed across the shadows.

_An enemy!?_ He turned towards the source. Escape was out of the question; the glimmer of the jewels must have revealed his location, and he still hadn't the skill to use his powder fast enough. Defense was impossible; he possessed no weapon, and what if the figure did? Panic paralyzed his limbs.

"...Lord Mark?" Reddish hair and tarnished armor emerged from the darkness.

The startled tactician took a deep breath to calm his nerves down. "Oh, good evening, Master Kent. You almost scared me for a moment there." Not to say the knight already _had_, or anything. "What brings you here?"

Closing part of the distance between them, Kent replied, "Lady Lyndis asked me to accompany you on your errand."

"Ah... very well, then. I'm almost done with my business here, anyway." He turned his attention back to the gems. "Thank you kindly, by the way."

"Merely my duty, sir tactician."

He flinched slightly but resumed his examination._ Lord. Sir._ The words irked him for some reason. _So _this_ must be how Lady Lyn felt that time..._ "Master Kent, may I ask you to drop the titles? I am not yet an owner of land or a person of much significance, so... yeah."

"As you wish, Mark."

"Thank you." One last sweep, and still no other unusual signs. "Drat."

Catching the swear, the knight asked, "Is there a problem?"

The tactician mulled over divulging what bothered him. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Master Kent."

"I already believe in a sword that chooses its owner; try me."

Mark chuckled. "Very well. When I touched the Mani Katti, the spirits that guarded it had, uh, _voiced their dissent and frozen my soul_." Elimine knew he was sounding like an utter loon, but it was as plain he could make it.

Kent brushed his chin. "Well... anything's possible?"

"Including the fact that _I'm still cold_?"

"You _do_ wear dark-green during daylight."

He frowned, letting out an annoyed grunt. "I give up. What happened when _you_ had held the Mani Katti, then?"

"All I had felt had been an unsuitably awkward grip- no talking spirits or sudden freezing."

"Well, that's just _peachy_; maybe the supernatural don't like tacticians or some other ridiculousness. Let's head back."

As they approached the crumbled passageway, Mark added, "Still, that's quite the defense mechanism for keeping the sword with its rightful owner- almost as if _more_ guardian angels now watch over Lady Lyn."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're right; Master Sain would be a bit _too_ willing to take that role." He felt a bump on his head from above him. "Something just hit me, didn't it? Please say it's not fecal matter..."

"It fell into your hood," Kent noted.

Reaching behind him cautiously and expecting a load of bird dung on his precious garment, the tactician pulled out a thin scroll from the "pocket". Sealing it was a stamped blue insignia. _A letter from Eria...?_ Realization dawned on him. _Now I remember!_ He pulled out his journal and turned to the inside of the back cover.

Swindlers had little- if any- success passing off their own goods under the guise of working under the organization, and yet the fools who had fallen for such deviousness had consequently paid with their lives once they had encountered the real deal. The sharper of mind would always look for the mark of the Craftlord sisters: the square-forming circles found in every item they've personally approved- including the apprentice tacticians' gear! The topmost circle corresponded to the Craftlord responsible for approving it: the blue one represented medicines and staves; the green one, armor and clothing; the red one, spell tomes and documents... and the brown one, weapons and tools.

_But that means... _they're_ the makers of the Mani Katti? No way. Maybe they had designed the altar or gotten the original pattern from here..._ If they had actually forged the sword, then that would make them _older than the current kings_!

Enthralled by his self-analysis, he almost forgot that he was still in Kent's presence. "Will you excuse me for a moment?"

The knight barely got an answer out before his inquirer went back into the shrine.

Walking towards the other entrance- the one still stained with the blood of the brigand who had attempted to ambush his comrades earlier that day- Mark unraveled the message.

_Our boss has recently informed us of a contract one of our advisors had made with Lord Lundgren of Caelin and his mission to remedy his inheritance dispute with a woman by the name of "Lyndis". Your starting position was near an area Lundgren had asked aid from. We, the Craftlords, are asking you to _not_ involve yourself with this affair, much less __side with the opposition__. You have no previous record whatsoever; starting your exploits with a case of treason would _not_ be the wisest choice._

_With love,_

_Eria_

Noticing the valediction, he couldn't help but be amused; the Sisters surely saw him as more of a valuable _test subject_ than a significant other. Still, the content had caused a pit of worry to fester in him; after all, no sane person would be glad to find themselves against his or her own _allies_, and _this_ one was perfectly capable of bringing defectors to their reckoning. "This is one _hell_ of a bad day..." He was about to sigh deeply when...

"I agree," Kent spoke, his sword's tip pushed ever so lightly against the tactician's back. "The scroll, please."

Frozen in place, Mark calmly rolled it up before gently tossing it behind him. "How did you know?" he asked as he raised his hands in surrender.

"You really should learn to read silently," the knight replied as he perused the message with his free hand.

"Huh. I guess I should."

Moments passed in relative silence before Kent dropped the parchment. "You do realize our current predicament, correct?"

"But of course. I know too much for you to just let me go on my merry way because it will cause even _more_ danger to Lady Lyn. Furthermore, unless I clear your doubts, I'm nothing more than an obstacle to your own mission."

"I'm glad you understand that, Mark. So, tell me, what are _your_ feelings on this matter?"

"Ha! Now _I'm_ the glad one. My answer to _that_..." He slowly reached for his cloak pocket.

Tensing up, the knight tightened his grip on his blade, ready to run his sword right through the knave before him.

Pulling out his pouch of warp powder- the opening closed tightly by the thin string around its neck- the tactician held it by the noose with his fingers. "...is this."

Slowly retracting his weapon to his side, he reached for the bag . Looking closely, he recalled the lozenge on the inside flap, the brown circle showing its dominance over its fellow shapes...

* * *

_"What do you have gold sand in this pouch?" Kent asked the beige-cloaked man lying on a large gold-trimmed reddish carpet as he was holding up the bag that had rolled near his feet. The sun's rays, piercing the clear windows that lead the way into the main audience chamber, flooded the area, the shine of the marbled walls and floor reflecting them every which way._

_"It's warp powder, Sir Kent," the man answered in a monotone as he lost himself in thought, maintaining his view on the portrait affixed to the wall nearest him as he brushed strands of his short brown hair off his eyes. Depicting a woman with flowing forest-green hair, her regal attire only served to accentuate her delicateness; the intricate details of the picture entranced him greatly. He didn't care about his sloppy position; he wanted visual aid to whisk him from the strenuousness of his actual duties, Elimine be damned. "Grants the user the ability to travel anywhere in the blink of an eye."_

_"What sorcery does it fall under?"_

_"Anima magic, if I recall correctly. Don't expect even the mighty Etruria to have such a convenience, though; only my kind can acquire it, much less use it. 'One bag per person' my superiors had warned me__."_

_"I see..."_

_A moment of silence passed between the two men before he broke it once more. "Did you know that the custom for us advisors swearing fealty is the relinquishing of those very bags to our employers?"_

_"No, sir," he replied plainly._

_"I know Cassio isn't much of a talker, but your 'tack' really should have told you guys that detail, if anything. By the way, _don't_ make a tear on it__; I don't want both of us to suddenly fall ill, and I'm in no mood to pluck the grains of such a valuable substance off the floor, infinite in capacity the powder __ in that pouch __may be."_

_"As you command, sir-"_

_"Drop the formalities," he interjected. "Just call me by name alone."_

_"Ah... As you command, Mark."_

* * *

"What's inside this?" he asked. He was quite sure of what the pouch was holding, but he feigned ignorance all the same.

"Warp powder," Mark stated. "Grants the user the ability to travel to faraway places within seconds. I'm still inexperienced with its proper use, though. As long as you're holding it, I can't suddenly 'leave you guys out to dry', so to speak."

He lowered his sword, realizing that _this_ Mark was working under the same organization as his liege's advisors. "So this means-"

"I've decided to stick with you guys," Mark finished for him. "Who knows? Maybe this job will give me a bigger boost to my 'reputation' than I had thought." Picking up the scroll, he made his way towards the makeshift opening once more. "Well, I'm done here. Shall we go, my good friend?"

"...Yes, we shall." Sheathing his sword and pocketing the powder, the knight followed him. "I think I understand now why Lady Lyndis hired you."

"Is that so?" Mark quipped as they were heading back to their companions. "That's nice to hear."

* * *

I never would have realized that the one action I had made that day could set off an unimaginable chain of events...


	4. Dispel Thy Shroud

_Fear._ Defined as an emotional response to threats and danger, it is the precursor to courage; only by understanding where the shadows come from can one steadfastly face them. This "foe of many forms", so to speak, exists only as one's reminder of _living_; after all, the dead cannot be afraid.

Since _psychological_ warfare still qualifies as warfare in the eyes of the organization, students are trained quite rigorously, their minds being honed to endure _anything_ that could impede their judgment- torture, animals, heights, drowning, darkness, and whatever other phobias they might have harbored. Believe me when I say it had _not_ been fun- not in the slightest. Then again, this is coming from the guy who had _aided_ the Sisters, so take that as you will.

Yet another short intro. My mind isn't what it used to be, considering... actually, never mind. It's only senility at work here again. At least the ratio's a bit more respectable.

* * *

Dispel Thy Shroud

_Ohhh, my head... I feel like I've gone down a cliff- wait, make that three..._ He tried to suppress the throbbing with his fingers, but felt his hands being restrained. _What the...?_ Opening his eyes, he found himself seated on a wooden chair, his wrists and ankles restrained by ropes. _This chair... these bindings... It can't be!_ Looking around, he saw nothing but darkness, save for a strong ray of light staring down on him from above.

That is, until the needle of a syringe flew right into his left eye.

Seeing the clear liquid inside it dwindle, he flailed about, realizing that the equipment were the exact same items he had maintained for so long.

"I see you've awoken..." a female voice spoke from the void.

He looked towards the source- the general direction of it, at the very least. "That voice..."

"I'm glad you still remember... 'Mark'." Blue hair emerged from the shadows.

"Lady Eria?" the tactician asked, surprised. "To what do I owe the pleasure? More importantly, where in Elibe _are_ we?"

"None of that is important now. Besides-" her tone suddenly became more sultry as she swiftly closed the distance between them- "you won't need that info when _I'm_ done with you..."

The reply only confused him even more. "Run that by-" He froze mid-sentence as the dutiful researcher sat on his lap and wrapped her arms around him. "M-m-milady!" he stuttered, his body now rigid as stone. "W-w-what is the m-m-meaning of-!?"

Two fingers pressed onto his lips, cutting him off. "Shhh..." she uttered as her head leaned on his.

A moment of relative silence passed as many thoughts raced across Mark's head, the most frequent ones being Eria's chest, her unusually light weight on his thighs, celibacy, the looks on her sisters' faces if they find her stealing an intimate moment with their guinea pig, the look on _Sain's_ face if he sees this occurrence... and the softness of his feather quill, oddly enough. The chain of thoughts rattled to the point of breaking as he felt her breath tickle his ear.

"_Speak no evil_..." she whispered.

He was going to respond, but having his own lips sealed by hers made answering pretty much impossible. Other than a light push on his mouth, he couldn't sense anything to register this event in his mind- the scent of her breath, the touch of her hands, the taste of her lips... His curiosity tempted him to close his eyes and stick out his tongue, as if goading him into surrendering to his lust.

Only when he released himself from his doubts did a sudden jolt emerged from his mouth, making him instinctively flinch.

He tried to yelp in pain... but couldn't make a sound. Opening his eyes, he saw Eria's face, a reddish snake squirming in her mouth. _Is that my _tongue_?_

"Mmm..." she moaned as she swallowed the snake, which made the tactician open his mouth in absolute shock. "Delicious."

"Was it really, dear sister?" a second female voice spoke from nowhere. "Maybe _I_ should've smooched him instead..."

Turning his head to his right, Mark saw what he assumed to be Hiita standing before him.

"Hello, dear lab rat. What's wrong?" She tilted her head to the side. "_Cat got your tongue_?"

His expression went blank as he saw her laugh haughtily. _Not. Funny._

Walking towards him, she responded, "Oh, don't be such a killjoy, Mr. Frumpy-Face," as if she could read his thoughts. "Besides, you won't be hearing from me- from _us_- for a _long_ time..."

He tensed his right arm as she was about to sit on it, but it felt nothing when she actually did.

Touching his chin with her fingers and turning his face towards hers, the fiery researcher gave him a look of smugness as ruby eyes met brown before leaning into his ear and whispering, "_Hear no evil_..."

_What the-!?_ was all he could think up before he felt what he assumed to be her _tongue_ burrowing into his ear and making its way out the other side. _Ewww! Gross!_ His head shook violently in disgust.

When the slimy feeling disappeared, Eria and Hiita redirected his gaze, making him look straight forward.

Emerging from the darkness was a green-haired woman. Her hands gripped a white square, the words written on it stained in red:

Hello 'Mark'

_Wynn? _He saw the timid researcher's mouth move, as if she was saying something, but found himself unable to hear her words.

Seeing his confused expression, Eria and Hiita gave their sister a thumbs-up, which prompted her to turn around and trace more words onto both sides of the huge paper with her hand.

_Is that _blood_?_ he thought to himself as he noticed the red on her right index finger.

When she turned back to the three on the chair, she held out the paper once more, which now had something written under the greeting:

This will be the last time we'll see each other

_What do you mean 'the last time'!?_ He looked at Wynn with a scared expression, as if trying to convey those words to her.

Noticing his eyes peering into hers, she flipped the paper, revealing three words:

See no evil

Suddenly, Eria secured his head in place and Hiita held his eyelids open as Wynn dropped the paper and pulled out two thin knives.

Seeing their luster glistening in the light, Mark desperately tried to shake off his restraints, to no avail. _Wait!_ he tried to mouth out, begging not to be subjected to this insanity. _Hold on! Let's talk about this! Ladies, please!!!_

His defiance fell on deaf ears as the knives' edges loomed closer and closer...

* * *

"Gah!" Jolting upright, he pushed his forest-green cloak- which he had used as a supplementary cover over himself- aside as he shielded his face with his hands, bracing himself for an attack. "No, not the... eyes?" Peeking though his hands, he only saw moonlight shining through a nearby window. A brief moment passed before he lied back down, covered his face with his cloak, and screamed through it. "Damn it! Damn it all!"

It was the evening after the formation of "Lyndis's Legion". One glimpse of failure, one baseless promise of revenge, one diplomatic breakdown, one escalation of hostility, one failed apology, and one brutal thrashing later, the battle-weary sextet had decided to rest at the one of the liberated villages' inns. Now, as his comrades frolicked in the land of dreams, the tactician found himself forcibly ejected from it for the sixth straight night.

_Another moment of respite wasted..._ he thought after finishing up the muffling of his curses.

Indeed, the room he had rented was too comfortable to disrespect its purpose: two homely beds sat at the far corners of the room, away from the hallway door, and a wooden table supporting a candlestand, which in turn was supporting a fizzled-out candle, sat at the center. Oak drawers to the left of the door doubled as support for a medium-sized mirror, and the window located between the beds gave a pleasant view of the other village. Though there wasn't much in here, the furniture complemented each other in giving off an aura of quaintness.

Pulling down his makeshift blanket, he stared at the wooden ceiling, trying to blank himself out in the endless abyss- and managed to get dust in his eye. Jumping into a sitting position, he brushed off the inconvenience. _It's no use. Maybe I should get some fresh air..._ Moving his legs to the side, he donned his cloak and shoes and pulled his hood over his head, being careful not to awaken the red-haired cavalier snoozing on the bed opposite him.

Their "budding relationship" had been built on a shaky foundation; ever since the incident at the shrine of the Mani Katti, Kent had actually _not_ divulged his "findings" to the others despite their importance- but he had also chosen to keep the warp powder on himself and stick close to Mark as precautionary measures. His steadfast evaluation of the tactician had been admirable, to say the least, but the many less-than-ideal nights that had occurred since then had made the latter wonder if it had been because of that event or the presence of his new shadow.

Stepping outside, Mark noticed the area where negotiations earlier had broken down; dried bloodstains still fed the barren soil and withered grass. _The Ganelon... What a simple-minded bunch._ Surely there were more productive solutions, but since the bandits couldn't let bygones be bygones and had thrown their lives away for shallow pride, he couldn't help but pity the fools. _Is admitting one's faults all that hard? Has the label of 'bandit' robbed the afflicted of their humility? Does it involve a special recipe of 'humble p-'?_

"...ark? Mark?" a voice kept inquiring from behind him.

Breaking from his stupor, he turned around and found himself face-to-face with the newly-recruited pegasus knight. "Oh, sorry about that. Good evening, Lady Florina."

"Good evening... Mark." Her tone still wavered. "What are you... doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep..." _Again._ "And you, milady?"

"I was going to... check up on my pegasus," she shakily replied.

He could sense her apprehension from the other side of the continent. "I see... In any case, I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. May I join you in seeing her?"

"Ah, my mount's actually a _he_..." she corrected him.

"Forgive my ignorance," he quipped, making sure not to add sarcasm. "May I join you in seeing _him_, then?"

"Er... alright."

As they headed for the stables nearby, the tactician noticed the lavender-haired woman maintaining the distance between them.

When they reached the area, he opened the door and bowed. "After you, milady."

"Thank you..." she replied before walking inside.

"The pleasure's all mine." Following her, he closed the door behind him and scanned the interior. Spaces sectioned off by wooden fencing, hay strewn across the floor and piled in corners, a row of pitchforks aligned at the far wall, rope wound in loops near said rack... nothing out of the ordinary- aside from the white pegasus wide awake amongst the napping horses and mules.

"Hey there, Huey..." Mark heard Florina speak as she approached her mount. When the addressed neighed in a friendly tone, she started brushing him as she conversed with him, her words outside the tactician's earshot.

The sight before him- a companionship between a rider and her mount- gave him an odd feeling of warmth. "Forgive me for interrupting this tender moment, Lady Florina-" again, he tried to drain out any trace of sarcasm- "but is it alright if I speak with you here? After all, I think 'Master Huey' deserves to hear this as well."

"Sure..." she spoke as she groomed the winged horse's mane.

With that, he cleared his throat- not because he had wanted to sound important, but only because his saliva at that exact moment had "gone down the wrong pipe", so to speak. "Thank you. First off... you know what my occupation is, correct?"

"A tactician," she replied.

"_Apprentice_ tactician, but yes. My _mission_ is to guide Lady Lyn and her cadre- 'Lyndis's Legion' as Master Wil had aptly named it earlier- safely to Marquess Caelin's presence. Next question: how much risk do _you_ think I'm willing to take?"

_That_ question made her think on her answer a bit. Basing her response on the policy she had learned from Ilia, she answered, "Whatever amount is necessary to complete the mission."

"That's _technically_ correct, according to my organization's protocol," Mark said as he tilted head to and fro, "but _I_ don't take risks. My _duty_ is to keep everyone under my command _alive_ and _able_. If necessary, I would devise five hundred contingency plans over _one single night_, stand night watch over _an entire week- _hell, I would even shield someone from a rain of arrows with _my own flesh,_ all to keep everyone intact; _that's_ how much I care about the lives of everyone here. I only ask _one_ thing in return: _my comrades' trust_." He made sure emphasis bled out of that last line.

"I cannot feign understanding your fear of men- me in particular- Lady Florina. I cannot force you to tell me its origin, thereby making you relive those horrific moments. I also cannot ask you to 'toughen up', 'stop being a chicken', 'live with it', or give you any other advice of such _moronic_ nature." He pointed towards Florina's chest. "That shroud which surrounds your heart is something I, a lowly being, cannot dispel..." He turned around, opened the stable door slightly, and looked towards her while his back faced her. "But as your tactician, as your 'guardian angel', _and_ as an acquaintance who wants to be your _friend_, I humbly ask you to lead me through that dense fog, to repel the shadows for a short while... to _trust me_. I'm gonna stand outside for a moment... Thank you kindly for listening to my ramblings, milady." With that, he stepped out and gently closed the door, leaving her alone with Huey.

* * *

Moments passed in relative silence as the tactician leaned on the other stable door, reading the "Advisors' Code" for amusement.

_'Do what is required'... how plain_, he thought as he stared at the lines of the poem. _What was the meaning of 'required', anyway? Was it limited to the core objectives? Were there any 'hidden' meanings? Could it actually be an odd way of asking the reader to overachieve? Maybe I'm looking too much into-_

"Mark?"

Stopping his flow of thoughts, he looked to his right and saw the pegasus knight standing beside him.

"Oh, Lady Florina! Sorry about that... again. Have you finished your business here?"

"Yes, I have," she replied.

"Great!" He began his march back to glorious- though still futile- rest. "Let's head back to the inn-"

"I trust you."

He froze mid-step. Turning around, he found himself locking eyes with hers. "I'm sorry?"

"I trust you," she repeated. "Please protect 'Lyndis's Legion' with your wisdom, Mark... as you have promised."

He couldn't help but smile at that simple statement, at that earnest request, at her fearless expression. "Yes, milady," he responded.

* * *

"I can't believe it," Lyn stated to the tactician the next day as the group continued their travels. "Florina seems much less timid around you now. How _did_ you do it?"

Mark rubbed his chin with his finger, thinking of a proper reply. "I blame Master Kent," he decided to say.

* * *

I thought that damn powder would stop messing with me if it wasn't in my possession! I _should_ blame Master Kent!

* * *

Yes: I've noticed that when I need to write dreams, the chapter gets delayed. I should cut that out (the habit, not the dream itself, per se)!


	5. Expectations

Not a single day passes by without me thinking fondly of my roots- a time before I had gone out to earn the title of "master tactician", before I had endured the many trials expected of an "apprentice tactician", before I had laid the ink-dipped point of the quill onto yellowed parchment and had sworn fealty to the organization... Yes, I speak of my family. For their safety, I will not name names.

The third child of four, I remember my egregious bouts of silliness when I had yet to control my senses- and believe me, mistakes are _much_ easier to recall than acts of valor, maturity, and whatnot. Oh, how I had used to screech so ear-piercingly at the slightest hint of danger! Oh, how I had tried to ride my father's traveling horse before finding myself soaring amongst the birds! Oh, how I had managed to exhaust (and _injure_) myself at everything I had devoted my very _soul_ to! Oh, what a buffoon of the highest order I had been (and still could be, to tell the truth)...

My elder sisters- fair, lovely (in the sense befitting a brother, _tainted one_), and four years apart from each other- are physicians and devout clerics, both quite skilled in the art of the staff (as expected of clergy members); said traits had surely been inherited from our dear mother. A pity they didn't seek significant others, as they had once told me that having an uncle of close age would be most awkward for _any_ child, much less one of _theirs_. Oh, how I had endlessly bickered with either of them _every single day..._ though there had also been times when I had found myself against _both_!

My younger brother- cunning, rough-edged, and three years below my own age- was quite the prodigious apprentice strategist, earning his succession rite much sooner than I had expected. By the way, did you know that we had joined the organization _at the same time_? It's true! He never _did_ manage to recover from his loss record against me in our chess duels, but then again, _I_ couldn't match him in strength in the ensuing spars... His dabbling in the physical martial arts had given him _one_ too many advantages, I think. Oh, how our rivalry had fueled our desires to succeed...

My mother, a retired cleric but still an able physician, defies her own age in physical appearance, something you'd definitely need to see to believe... though getting around the faux pas might be tricky. Don't be fooled by her gentle expression; underneath it lies determination as fierce as beasts! That raging fire has helped her through the worst of times... and in a way, it had contributed to my never-say-die attitude.

Last, but not least, is my father: a man who has mastered both paths of the advisor, possesses the strength of ten men, and is a damn good chess player! A blacksmith who now specializes in crafting medals of honor, he's the one person both my brother and I aspire to be- the reason we had joined the organization in the first place. Others might say we're just trying to live up to his legacy, but he had inspired us to live our lives to the fullest, to _exceed_ his own greatness. He stands at the summit of the arduous mountain my brother and I are climbing _this very moment_, just _waiting_ for us to become his equals...

Ah, I've chattered for too long... but that reminiscence had been too sweet to sour by ending it prematurely.

* * *

Expectations

_Food... Glorious food... Where art thou?_ He clutched his stomach, his insides churning in excruciating pain.

"Mark, are you _sure_ you want to tag along?" the brown-haired archer asked his cloaked companion as they were making their way through the thick vegetation. "I can handle my prey by myself, you know..."

"Of _course_ I want to, Master Wil," the tactician replied. "Besides, everyone else back at camp will be fine, and I can't just leave you alone- ack!"

A thin, flexible tree branch smacked him right in the throat.

"Whoops, sorry!" Wil exclaimed.

He gave the archer a stern look for exactly one second before succumbing to the ensuing coughing fit.

It was the afternoon after the tactician had earned the trust of the lavender-haired pegasus knight. Lyndis's Legion had managed to cover quite a bit of ground earlier as Lyn had ridden on Florina's mount; Wil, Sain's; and Mark, Kent's (as the former had expected). Now, as the others were setting up camp, the archer decided to get some meat for tonight's meal; the tactician, seeing this moment as a perfect chance for conversation, volunteered to aid him in his task.

Eventually, his coughing subsided. "So, Master Wil... Why were you in that village yesterday?"

"To strike rich," he responded. "I was planning to earn gold in these parts by subduing the local bandits. Unfortunately, they struck first, and... you know the rest."

"The element of surprise is a double-edged sword, yep." He rubbed his neck, still aching from the impact. "Besides, isn't that dangerous- one archer against a bunch of axemen, I mean?"

"I can handle close-range battle quite well, _thank you very much_," he scoffed.

"I didn't say I doubted you or anything, but aren't the methods for precision shots very... well, _precise_?"

"I've been around Elibe for _four years_; I don't call myself a master marksman for nothing!"

The duo soon reached a clearing in the dense forest. A number of tree stumps decorated the grassy area, most of them long rotted from the forces of nature. However, the object of interest was foraging amongst the "graves": a deer with dark brown fur, sharp-looking antlers, and a black-tipped tail.

"_Jackpot_," Wil whispered to Mark as he withdrew an arrow from the quiver strapped to his waist.

The tactician silently watched his companion nock said arrow and pull the bowstring with what the latter was estimating to be sufficient enough strength for felling the beast.

Moments passed as the bowman isolated the factors that could alter his shot: wind, the prey's movement, and his stance, among other things. _Steady... One shot... one kill._ He fired the arrow, sending it zooming towards its target.

The last sense the prey had experienced was the taste of the grass.

* * *

"I can already taste tonight's meal!" Mark exclaimed as he helped Wil carry the dead deer towards the camp, himself in front.

"You've got to admit, this one's quite plump, huh?"

"Very much so." Indeed, their prey felt much heavier than expected- then again, the tactician was unusually scrawny under his bulky clothing. Looking to his left, he saw the sun beginning to descend into the landscape. "So, Master Wil, do you have any family waiting for you when you're done journeying?"

"Well..." he trailed off.

Mark bit his lip, thinking he had just made a faux pas. "Did I trigger bad thoughts? Forgive me..."

"They're still alive and well in Pherae," Wil corrected him. "It's just..."

"They're _not_ waiting for you?" he asked, incredulous. "What's that all about?"

He hesitated to reply. A moment passed before he answered. "Do you remember when I said I wandered Elibe for four years?"

"Yes, why?"

"I actually... ran away from my home in Pherae four years ago- with a friend, no less. Dan and I dreamed of becoming wealthy and returning soon after... but we hit a snag."

"What _kind_ of snag...?"

"I guess you could say... it was guilt. One month later, after we had entered Port Badon, we were beginning to have second thoughts about chasing our dreams- after all, an archer and a lumberjack with blank slates don't exactly _exude_ professionalism. Then, out of the blue, Dan decided to give up and return to Pherae; this shocked me, to say the least. I thought, 'How could he disgrace himself like that?' Then again, I was no better; my foolish pride wouldn't let me give in that quickly. I wandered around the mainland for a few years, getting by with only that 'dream' to sustain me, until I found myself here. Nothing changed, though; the fear of my parents finding me out after I had plagued them with worry for so long scares the wits out of me, even now..." Finishing his tale, he fell silent.

"Master Wil..." The tactician pondered over his next set of words. "You know, I have a similar tale to tell."

"...You do?" the archer asked, his interest piqued.

"Yes, I do. When my brother and I had told our parents we would become advisors, they had vehemently opposed it. Our mother said, 'You shouldn't use others as your tools! Why don't you two just become priests? Instead of harming souls, why don't you heal them?' Tell me, do I look like a priest to you?"

"Well, you've got the _frame_..." Indeed, the man before him looked like a twig ready to break under the smallest force.

"You're _not_ helping my case here," the tactician groaned, visibly upset. "Anyway, our father said, 'Military advisors carry a great burden: they're expected to get the mission done at _any_ cost- including your life or any of your comrades'. Are you willing to bear that responsibility for a cause with no definite value?' In the end, we were able to get their approval, but when we had finally signed up, we learned that we couldn't contact them until we had earned our qualifications... and they couldn't tell us that fact because they had been sworn to secrecy!" He took a deep breath. "Master Wil, your parents can never hate you. Despite the fact that I could be six feet under at any moment, my folks had let me chase _my_ dream; even now, I bet they're praying for the safe return of their two boys. You're in a much better position than I am. When you get the chance, _go home_-"

"But I can't-" he interjected.

"_Listen_ to me," Mark countered. "_When_ you get the chance, _go home_. I'll hammer it into your head if I must!"

Thankfully, the advice sunk into the archer as he nodded to the tactician. "...Alright. When our journey is over, I'll go back to Pherae... to my family."

"Good man." Mark hid a smile, his personal mission to earn Wil's trust successful. "It's a good thing your mind's as sharp as your eyes..." He felt a kick in his thigh. "Whoa!" His balance thrown off, he fell onto the grass, the dead deer pinning him down.

"Whoops..." Wil chuckled as the tactician thrashed about, unable to throw off the weight.

* * *

_So_ I didn't inherit the strength of my father... Sue me. In case you were wondering, my sisters had been out on a pilgrimage during the time my brother and I had chosen our professions.

* * *

Yes: Happy Father's Day 2009! It just so happened that today's theme was "family", so I devote this chapter to my own father!


	6. Generosity

No matter what angle you view a conflict from, there's always a reason why it even exists: money, recognition, challenge, honor, vengeance, and even _love_, among other things. The worst part about siding with a cause, though, is that it can change at a moment's notice; a simple duel for gold can turn into a thirst for blood, a desire to protect, or a yearning to be slain, in no particular order. Still, without conflict, our lives would be horribly droll.

Without self-conflict, wisdom cannot be acquired; without arguments, people cannot understand each other. Without war, the organization cannot sustain itself... not that I'm _concerned_ or anything.

I'll just be out of a job.

* * *

Generosity

_Foolish bandits, thinking we were easy marks. They must have been part of the Ganelon group that Migal guy had spoken of yesterday._ He looked through the crumbling walls of the dilapidated fortress, at the bloody corpses scattered around the perimeter. _This is the _last_ thing the Legion needs right now..._ Seeing the two cavaliers approaching, Mark asked them, "Status report?"

"The enemy's retreating," Kent replied. "No fatal injuries incurred by any of us."

"The leader responsible has also been subdued," Sain added.

"Thank you, Saint Elimine," the tactician uttered to the orange skies, relieved. "Master Sain, Master Kent, I want everyone to scavenge the corpses for any usable items. Oh, and please tell Master Dorcas that I request his audience."

Another faction of the Ganelon had just been taken care of by Lyndis's Legion. The bandits' quest for revenge, which had emerged after the recent loss of one of their leaders, had become the downfall of quite an even greater number of them when they had tried to assault their foes' temporary camp, only to have been completely outsmarted. Now, as night began its descent, the Legion found themselves grateful for their victory.

Soon after the two knights had left Mark's presence to carry out his order, a muscular, red-haired man carrying a blood-stained axe and a girl with long, green hair showed up from the southern entrance.

"Dorcas!" the brown-haired girl behind the tactician exclaimed.

Gently dropping his weapon, he ran up to his wife and hugged her. "I'm so sorry, Natalie..." Tears welled up in his eyes.

"All's well that ends well," Lyn quipped. "Right, Natalie?"

"Speak of the devil," Mark said. "Lady Lyndis, can you help Master Kent and Master Sain with the order I had just given them? I need to talk privately with _those_ two-" he pointed at the tender couple- "for a moment."

She gave a quick nod in agreement before complying.

When the show of affection was over, he sat on an even-surfaced brick near a wall, gazing at the disease affecting Natalie's leg. Based on his family's data, he knew that the run-of-the-mill healer around these parts wouldn't have the skill nor the tools necessary to purge it out of her completely. Either an experienced cleric- his mother, most probably- or a product of Eria's own work could pull off such a feat; having _both_ available would be a miracle in its own right.

"So, Master Dorcas, I couldn't help but overhear your reason for the initial hostility. Lady Natalie, you've got quite the catch."

"Thank you for the compliment," she replied.

"However..." Mark continued, "I can't help but feel that if Lady Lyndis hadn't mentioned you, Master Dorcas there would've attacked you in his bout of self-conflict."

She looked at her husband, hoping the tactician was lying, but the axe-wielder looked down and sighed, unable to deny it.

"I could read it in both his eyes and his attack; he threw his hand axe at Lady Lyndis and missed _on purpose_. I doubt he actually _agreed_ with the enemy leader's opinion." He looked at Dorcas. "Am I correct, my good sir?"

The tactician's deduction skills must have surprised him, judging from the perplexed look he immediately wore. "Quite the sharp wit you have there, Mark," he responded.

"I blame my psychology teachings. In any case, I needed to address it. Did you know that if you had engaged anyone other than Lady Lyndis, you would've _died_ the moment you had missed? Bah, what am I saying- _of course you knew_! You should be thankful you're still _standing_- even though you're _sitting_, but you know what I mean!" He breathed deeply and exhaled. "And yet _I_ should be grateful for that doubt. Like Lady Lyndis had just said, 'All's well that ends well.' Next order of business..." He pulled out a bag from his cloak pocket, cradled it in his hands, and showed it to the couple. Bouncing it, he made the clink of small metal echo across the desolate area.

"Is that-?" Dorcas began.

"Gold, yes," Mark finished for him. "One thousand pieces of it, to be exact. Tell me: _if you had succeeded_, how much were the Ganelon going to pay you for this gig?"

"Well..." He hesitated in answering and looked at Natalie, silently asking if she would be offended by his next words.

The nod she gave him as she gripped his hands with her own seemed to mean that she agreed.

"...The flat rate had been two hundred fifty gold," he answered, "and the number of women they captured would've increased it, depending on their 'value'."

"Really, now? Were you also expecting them- a gang of _brigands_- to fulfill their end of the deal?"

The addressed held his tongue.

"No answer, eh?" Mark brushed his chin. "That just solidifies my assumption of them going with the flat rate. You care for your wife deeply, in a _dangerous_ sense. Sacrifices may be needed to reach an end, but lines must be drawn, lest you allow your humanity to dwindle to nothing. Let's see..." He began whispering to himself- another eccentricity he had failed to remedy in his youth. "_Caelin's military is centered on lances, so it would be doubled. Take into account the distance we still need to cover _and_ the Ganelon we still need to shake off..._" Looking back at the axeman, he spoke, "Master Dorcas, give me your hand."

"Er... sure?" He held his right hand out- and felt the weight of the entire string-bound bag. "What are you-?"

"Half now, and the rest when we reach Castle Caelin," he interjected. "Lady Natalie, do you mind if I borrow your husband's skills for a short while?"

"I don't mind, Mark, but... isn't this a bit much?" she asked back.

"I'm grateful that you need my services after what had transpired earlier today, truly," Dorcas added, "but you don't have to go _this_ far."

The tactician leaned against the wall for a moment. "You're right; I _don't_ have to go that far..." Seeing the bag being offered back to him, he held out a hand- and gently pushed the item back to the holder. "...because it wasn't far _enough_. The pouch is yours, _and_ I'll include whatever amount I get paid with to that deal. I'll also try to get your wife treatment by one of the most skilled physicians I've ever known. I'm not kidding here."

Seeing their shocked faces, he adjusted his hand to initiate a handshake. "Well?"

This unexpected gesture was too good to be true; he had never seen such altruism from such an earnest face before. "Only if you tell us why you're being so generous," he counter-offered.

"I understand your predicament, for I had also fulfilled requests for a living- not as a mercenary, mind you, but as the last confidant of condemned traitors," he answered. "If I had gained more knowledge of the medical arts before becoming an advisor, I would have already cured your wife's disease long before your employers had found my group; as it is, I am obligated to make up for my inexcusable present lack of aid."

Realizing that Mark was acting out of a sense of helplessness, the couple understood the meaning behind his generosity: his own guilt was driving him into making himself a better person.

Seeing Dorcas accept the pouch and place it on Natalie's lap, Mark added, "Oh, there _is_ one caveat, sorry."

"That would be...?"

"Why, _do not die_, of course."

He looked at Natalie's face and saw her smile gently at him. "Very well," he said as he looked at Mark with a small grin. "Deal."

And with a handshake so firm that the advisor could feel his hand ache, Dorcas became a member of Lyndis's Legion.

* * *

"Let's go," the dutiful cavalier said to his aloof friend as he exited the room.

"Ha ha..." Sain choked out. "No one trusts me..."

"You wound me, Master Sain," the tactician quipped as he feigned an arrow to the heart.

"Oh, Mark. Sorry..." he apologized as they walked outside as well.

After Dorcas had departed from the Legion for the night with Natalie in his arms, the two knights and the group advisor had decided to keep watch over the remaining members.

"Master Kent, will I be paid for my services?" the tactician spoke unexpectedly, throwing the Green Lance off guard.

"I thought you were only doing it for experience!" Sain pointed out.

"That's right," he assured him.

"Why are you asking for money _now_?" Kent asked.

"Well, you see..." The tactician found himself having to explain his previous unsupervised actions.

* * *

I _had_ originally joined without expecting money- this was only supposed to be a training mission, after all. My promise to Dorcas- every part of it- would eventually be fulfilled, but I had to do it in a way more roundabout than wanted- or _allowed_.

* * *

Yes: Yes, it's short. I'm a horrible person. This may be subpar, but the fact that the tactician had _asked_ Dorcas to join the Legion had to be addressed.

Then again, maybe it _had_ been that simple to gain trust... yeah, right.

From what I remember in Lyn's Story (Normal Difficulty), Dorcas's pre-programmed attack on Lyn always missed its mark. Maybe I had just been super-lucky ten times in a row?

One last thing: there's a reason the character label says "& Tactician/Mark".


	7. Poisonous Doubt

Long before the thought of wielding tactics had crossed my mind, my dear mother had suggested the wielding of staves.

"Healers never find themselves unneeded, and knowledge of medical techniques are never considered useless," she had explained to me back then.

Her theory had been sound and my mind had been too bound to the present at the time, so I had obliged.

However, as time passed, realization had dawned on me: I was incapable of using any magic. With that fact haunting my mind, I had paused my progression into that field.

I had never regretted my choices, even when I had stood firm in my decision to turn to tactics... but that steadfastness had faltered at times.

* * *

Poisonous Doubt

_Ugh..._ The pelting of the rain against the window before him echoed in his skull. His chin tucked in his arm, he lazily held his feather quill over his eyes, wondering about the places its "owner" could have been to. _My kingdom for a _single_ dreamless night..._

After spending many days traveling westward, the group had arrived at the border separating Lycia from Sacae, but a single loose end- the Ganelon- had managed to catch up to them for a final clash. One quickly-settled struggle later, they had decided to recuperate in the nearby town's inn- just in time for the weather to turn sour. Now, as the others rested in their rooms, the tactician lazed in the lobby.

The sound of creaking boards caught his attention, but exhaustion paralyzed his body.

_Too. Lax. To. Respond... Must. Brace. Self..._

"Good evening, Mark!" a female voice chirped as she approached the advisor slumped over the table.

"Good evening, Lady Serra," he intended to respond, but his mouth slurred the words to a whisper.

Reaching him, she took a seat near his frail body. "Pardon?" she spoke as she leaned her ear closer, his voice apparently too subdued.

Mentally cursing himself for the disrespect, he lifted his chin and mustered the rest of his energy into his lungs. "Good evening, Lady Serra," he managed to elucidate with his best smile before his head hit the table once more.

Noticing the thud, she asked him, "Are you alright?"

"Never better-"

"Oh, no," she cut in, sitting upright with worry etched onto her face. "You're _not_ going to pull that on _me_, mister! Lyn told me about that habit of yours, so don't even _think_ about hiding it!"

"But-!" he tried to explain.

"No buts! Either tell me your ailment, or I'll get her to make you cough it up!" She readied herself towards the stairs to emphasize the demand.

He looked at her, at the stairs, and then back at her before sighing deeply. "Alright, alright, I'll talk."

Turning back to him, she returned to her cheerful demeanor. "_That's_ better... You shouldn't conceal anything from _me_, you know- even if you _can't_."

He gave a soft chuckle. "Yes, _now_ I know, Lady Serra. Forgive my offensiveness."

"Apology accepted. Now, what's been troubling you?"

"A being that feasts on pleasant dreams," he responded. "I haven't been able to sleep at all."

"Interesting... how long has this been happening for?"

"Oh, about ten days now," he mused absently.

"_Ten days!?_" she exclaimed.

The incredulousness in her tone appeared to have shocked her, though the witless tactician failed to pick up on it; then again, maybe it was the insomnia at work.

"Mark, that's certainly not healthy for you at all; you've already crossed the threshold to insanity, for Elimine's sake! _You. Need. Rest._"

"I _tried_ to sleep, Lady Serra- really, I did- but the being _won't go away_. Oh, and please don't suggest using your Heal staff; it's better used elsewhere, and I already know it can't help me."

Moments passed in relative silence as the duo pondered on a solution.

Breaking the air of stillness, the cleric suggested, "Maybe if you do something relaxing, then you can sleep soundly! Everyone's stuck here, anyway, so now's the perfect time!"

He juggled his thoughts. Maybe the workload _had_ gotten to him; a bit of indulging just might solve his dilemma. "Alright, then..."

* * *

"Here you go, Mark- one cup of Cayenne Twilight," she said as she placed the tea in his hands. "This should help you relax."

"Thank you kindly, Lady Serra," he replied as he accepted it. "Sorry for making you go through all this trouble..."

"It's the least I could do. Just make sure to get my good side!"

He gave a playful yet assuring nod as he lowered his quill into the ink bottle. After the point was sufficiently-inked, he gently forced it onto the journal page- the start of his attempt to capture her graceful form.

When the tactician had thought of an activity to relax with, he had also intended to make it productive- well, more than his usual antics, at the very least. One glance at his journal had cemented his choice; he had decided to draw portraits of the Legion's members, starting with the cleric herself. Not only would it help him clear his mind, but it would also add to the value of his journal when it's checked. Besides, he considered himself a decent artist.

With each stroke of the quill, his restlessness lessened bit by bit, as if its essence was being transferred into the page. The lines became a head, a body, limbs, a face... As time passed, the page absorbed more and more ink, and the shell of the person captured grew more detailed and elaborate.

Every now and then, he took a sip of the tea, quenching his thirst slowly but surely. Its initial mildness soon gave way to a fiery spiciness, burning his fatigue away all the while.

"This tea..." he muttered after half the drink had entered his system.

"Is there a problem, Mark?" she inquired.

"No, it's delicious, truly. It just... brought back a few memories, is all." Continuing on his drawing, he asked, "Lady Serra, how are the duties of a healer?"

She pondered on her reply before answering, "Complicated."

"How so?"

"Learning the healing arts had been quite rigorous. There had been times when I had felt the amount of knowledge to be staggering, but in the end, I believe- no, I _knew_- that all my efforts had paid off. Helping others with my skills gives me a sense of... belonging."

"'Belonging', huh..." He stared at the drawing. "To tell the truth, my mother and sisters are all healers... and I had once aimed to be one, as well. I had always wondered why they had focused on their profession so strongly. When I had asked them about it, they had said that part of the reason was for stability, but they had also been fiercely devoted to helping others. I had understood their reasons, but in the end, I had realized that I hadn't inherited that 'fire' and followed this profession instead." He tilted his journal upwards as emphasis before chuckling. "A pathetic turn of events for a lowly being such as myself, huh, Lady Serra?" When he received no reply, he rose his voice a bit, thinking he had spoken too softly again. "Lady Serra...?" Putting his quill into the ink, he lowered his journal and saw her staring at the floor.

Something incoherent escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry?"

"...You dummy..." she repeated.

"Lady Serra...?" Putting his journal onto the table, he walked towards her. Tilting his head down, he looked at her face and noticed her holding back tears.

"You have a family... and yet you choose to face death...?" Her voice quavered. "How can you... be so selfish...?"

For once in his career as a tactician, he found himself frozen in place and unable to answer. The cleric's words had been as blunt as rocks, and yet they had held the sharpness of the Mani Katti's blade. Doubt began to form in his mind. What if this career was a one-way trip to his coffin? What if his profession was only the working of a carefree whim?

"You don't realize..." she continued, "how lucky you are..."

Sighing, Mark sat next to her, his hands gripping themselves. "Lady Serra... Forgive me for divulging my past to you like that... but know that I regret nothing. Stopping my progression into the healer's role, becoming a military advisor, separating from my family like this... I did all that of my own accord. I may not be able to heal souls, but I had felt- and still _feel_- that my skills can prevent them from being harmed; this is why I had thought I could do more good as a tactician than as a healer. Besides, I have no intention of dying or getting any of us in mortal danger. I'd like you to understand that, but I won't force my beliefs on you; you're allowed to think of me as a scoundrel and a foolish son if you so choose..." He stood up from his seat. "Well, I believe this session is over; I've apparently upset you too greatly for me to continue the portrait," he spoke, turning towards his possessions and tea. "I'll just clean up-" A tug on his sleeve made him halt mid-step. Turning towards the source, he found her hand on his cloak.

"I'm sorry..." she spoke, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "It was wrongful of me to call you selfish... Forgive me."

"It's my fault," he softly countered. "You were in the right."

"Even so..." She took a deep breath and calmed down. "Please finish the drawing, Mark," she added, a beaming smile back on her face. "You promised me, after all."

"Ah... of course." He picked up his journal and quill; that side she showed him needed to be caught, and _quickly_.

* * *

"A bit more here, a touch there, and... finished!" he announced, emphasizing with his last stroke.

"Great! May I see?" she asked him.

"But of course," he answered as he showed her the journal page. "It's actually been a while since I've done portraits; a few details may look a bit skewed and the proportions may seem slightly off, but-"

"It's magnificent!" she spoke in excitement.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's gorgeous! Oh, thank you, Mark!"

And with that, the tactician found himself caught in a tight hug.

* * *

I guess I still have that artistic flair...

* * *

Yes: Sorry for the long delay, but I feel that Lady Serra had been one of the harder subjects to write about. My mood seems to have swung back into focus...


	8. Incapable

_Anima magic._ Based on the elements of the world- earth, fire, water, and wind- spells of this type are linked to the definition of knowledge, bending the laws of nature to fulfill the caster's intentions when evoked. One who understands said laws would have little trouble utilizing this power- or so I had assumed.

After finding myself unable to learn most physical arts, I had turned to learning the trinity of magic; however, I could only access anima magic from the organization's armory for some odd reason. I had believed that people with a general lack of strength could instead use spells in their arsenal.

Oh, how uninformed I had been...

* * *

Incapable

_Deny the inevitable._ Loosening the tension in his legs, the tactician fixed his posture and breathed deeply, his eyes closed shut as he steadied an open tome with a reddish-orange cover on his left arm. _Deny miracles._ Exhaling through his mouth, he tried to clear his mind of any wandering thoughts. _Accept logic._ He lifted up his right hand to the level of his waist, his fingers straight and his palm facing upwards. "_The _fire_ of passion! Call forth orbs _upon_ my path and _roast_ my enemy!_"

What he had been told to expect- flames engulfing his thoughts, a rush of warmth flowing through his blood, a fireball hovering over his palm- did not come.

"Too dramatic," a purple-haired male quipped as he sat on his bed. He wore only his dark blue shirt and sepia pants; his brown boots sat silently under his scarlet cloak, which was hanging from a hook nearby. "Read the chant more smoothly and with less emphasis on a particular word."

Giving an annoyed grunt, Mark repeated the procedure. _Deny the inevitable._ _Deny miracles._ _Accept logic._ "_The fire of _passion_! Call _forth_ orbs upon my path and roast my enemy!_"

Again, nothing came.

"Ah, passant-!" A coughing fit suddenly overwhelmed him.

"Mark, take a break."

Closing the book and putting it on its owner's bed, he rubbed his throat. "I'll just get some water, then. If you'll excuse me, Master Erk..." Opening the door to the hallway, he stepped out of the room.

The weather today had not improved from yesterday; the angels' sorrows had apparently not lessened. Stuck in the town inn for another day, the advisor had decided to ask the group's mage for help in practicing anima magic. Now, after a number of failed attempts to harness said power, he found himself with a sore throat and a dire need for a nap.

Entering the lobby, he noticed a brunette cleaning glasses behind the counter. Her long brunette hair had braids on both sides of her youthful face, and her attire- a fading light-brown apron over a loose-sleeved shirt and pants of matching color- only emphasized her cuteness; the rumors Sain had heard of her had apparently been well-founded.

"Pardon me, Lady Nina, but may I have-!" He suddenly coughed again, more fiercely than last time.

"A glass of water?" she finished for him.

When the bout subsided, he seated himself on a nearby chair and gave a weak nod. A moment passed before he saw his request fulfilled. Thanking her, he took a few sips before his head hit the surface.

"You don't seem as _chipper_ as yesterday," she quipped.

"I've been through worse- _much_ worse," he replied, losing today's count of the number of times he had already given that answer.

"I hope you feel better."

"Me, too, milady. Me, too..."

Finishing up her wiping of the glasses, Nina left the lobby to tend to other tasks, leaving Mark alone in the area.

Fatigue overwhelming him, he decided to forgo the comfort of his own bed and sleep right then and there on the counter, hugging the folds of his cloak closer to himself.

* * *

_"Come on, you pansy! Stop slouching!" a red-haired girl barked, slamming the blunt part of her staff into Mark's back._

_"Yes, Lady Hiita!" he yelped as he immediately straightened himself. Flexing his right hand, he focused his eyes on the words of the book- as if his glare would set it on fire- before closing his eyes. _Deny the inevitable. Deny miracles. Accept logic. _"_The fire of passion! Call forth orbs upon my path and roast my enemy!_"_

_The grass near him wavered, the sun's rays shone, and a light breeze swooshed past him- but the fireball did not appear._

_"Stop doubting yourself!" she yelled. "Deny the darkness of the past! Deny the false hope of the future! Accept the existence of the present!"_

_"Yes, Lady Hiita!" His body seemed to follow her instructions, but his mind- his _heart_- was resisting them._

_Inevitability, hope, past, future... he couldn't bring himself to disregard them. Accepting the inevitable and the records of the past allowed him to properly prevent repeats of horrendous mistakes; accepting hope and the unpredictability of the future allowed him to see the possibilities of success. Each part of the whole, like the pieces of a chessboard, held value; disregard for this fact only led one to his doom._

_Nevertheless, he pushed forward. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his thoughts._

_"Hiita!" Running towards them was a blue-haired girl carrying a sapphire-tipped staff._

_Giving a weak chuckle, she said, "Eria, hello-!"_

_"What are you doing here!?" she asked, frantic. "You're _supposed_ to be helping me with the paperwork!"_

_"Our guinea pig over there-" she pointed at the brown-haired person standing out of earshot at the tip of the hill- "wanted to learn basic magic, and I thought I had some spare time-"_

_"Well, you _don't_!" she interjected. "You're coming with me _right now_!" She grabbed her sister's ear and twisted it._

_"Eek! Mercy! Mercy!" Hiita yelped in pain._

_"I swear, sometimes I think you _enjoy_ making me upset!" With that, she dragged her away from the field of grass, leaving the apprentice tactician by his lonesome._

_"_The fire of passion! Call forth orbs upon my path and roast my enemy!_" Opening his eyes, he found himself without a fireball in his hand and alone on the hill. "That's odd; where did Lady Hiita go?"_

_"She went with Eria," a female voice spoke from behind him._

_Turning around, he saw a fern-haired girl standing before him, an emerald-tipped staff and a book with a light-green cover in her hands as the tails of her jackets danced in the wind._

_"Good afternoon, Lady Wynn. To what do I owe the pleasure?"_

_"Your act is as charming as ever, I see..." she quipped._

_"Milady, this is no act," he refuted._

_"I wonder about that..." She gave him a sly smile. "In any case, I need your help, 'Monsieur Guinea Pig'."_

_"Okay, that's just awkward..."_

_"Says the pseudo-servant," she countered. "Anyway, I developed an experimental spell and was wondering if you could test it for me."_

_"You're asking this failure of a mage because...?"_

_"If it works, even _you_ could cast magic, right? After all, this might help out pure beginners, and since you're as novice they come-"_

_"Surely you jest," he said with a look of incredulousness._

_"It's the truth. Well?"_

_It wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter; he had liked to think that fulfilling the Sisters' favors also saved other poor schmucks from early graves. After mock-pondering for all of two seconds, he answered, "For you, I'd do _anything_."_

_She knew he was referring to her status as one of the Sisters, but she considered it as a genuine agreement all the same.

* * *

_

_"The chant for this one is 'The winds of change. Call forth blades upon my path and slash my enemy.'" she instructed. "Did you get all that?"_

_He took a deep breath. "'The winds of change. Call forth blades upon my path and slash my enemy.' Just like that?"_

_"Perfect. Whenever you're ready, then..." She walked a few steps away from him._

_Loosening his tension, he stood upright and controlled his breathing, his eyes closed as he steadied the open book- "Wind", Wynn had labeled it- on his arm. _Deny the inevitable. Deny miracles. Accept logic. _"_The winds of change! Call forth blades upon my path and slash my enemy!_"_

_Wynn had told him to expect a small tornado in front of him, but nothing appeared._

_Five, ten, twenty times... no matter how much he had tried, the abilities of the magician wouldn't awaken within him._

_Eventually, Wynn approached him and said, "That's enough. It appears this experiment needs more development..." before taking the tome from his hands, disappointment in her voice.

* * *

_

"Mark... Mark..." The mage nudged the advisor's shoulder repeatedly.

He felt strangely refreshed as he awoke from his slumber- save for the stiffness in his back. "Master Erk... Hello."

"You were sobbing in your sleep," he noted. "Are you okay?"

"Huh?" Touching his face, he felt damp trails of tears. Rubbing then off with his sleeve, he replied, "Oh, I'm just peachy..." Looking behind him, he found himself being stared at by the whole of Lyndis's Legion; apparently, suppertime was approaching. "What, is there something in my hair?"

Some shrugged him off and went back to their conversations, while others gave him irked looks; nevertheless, all eyes looked away.

Turning back to Erk, he continued, "Er, about those lessons... I appreciate your assistance, but I've come to realize that magic in general is beyond my capabilities. Forgive me for wasting your time."

"It's alright; at least you realized your limits before it was too late," he replied as he sat next to Mark and patted his shoulder.

_'Too late'?_ "Pardon?" Pressing the issue, he inquired, "What would have happened otherwise?" He had never considered the studying of spells to be a danger in itself.

"My mentor had told me of people who had disgraced the spirits by evoking them incorrectly, thereby provoking them into punishing the casters. Some lost select senses, others their physical body parts... and a few were even cursed with a continual string of misfortunes. For you own safety, I warn you to be careful if you plan on pursuing magic in the future."

Straightening himself, he pushed the end of his cloak behind him to avoid getting it caught between his rear and the oaken surface. "Master Erk, forgive me for saying this, but I refuse to believe that there's such a thing as 'incapability'."

"Well, you _should_; I highly doubt that my mentor had told me lies."

He mentally flinched. "May Elimine herself appear before me and smite me where I stand, then, for I am no quitter. 'One cannot win if one does not challenge'- a saying _my_ mentor had taught me."

"Quite sure of yourself, aren't you?" the mage hissed.

"Never surer!" the tactician exclaimed.

They leered at each other for a few seconds, trying to stare each other down... until they burst into laughter. A friendly joust of words the conversation had spiraled into.

When the duo lowered their voices, Erk asked, "I guess only time will reveal the one in the right, huh...?"

"I guess so," Mark replied.

* * *

Only later did I learn that though it hadn't been word-for-word, that blasted mage had been in the right...

* * *

Yes: A slacker I am, through and through.


	9. The Wordless Language

Yes: Most of my previous chapters (from long, _long_ ago) have been corrected a bit, so please look over them when you have the chance. Thank you, sharp-sighted reviewers!

* * *

The most valuable factor of advisors is obviously their communication skills. Expressing one's own meanings onto paper, into words, or into gestures can only do so much separately; it's only when all viable methods are used that advisors can guide their pieces to victory.

This fact alone is why the condition of being Sensebound is so horrifying; the afflicted, cut off from the outside world, are left to fend for themselves, trying their utmost to repel the shadows of their own mistakes from nibbling away at their sanity.

The few who are blessed with freedom from their "disease" tend to value their work more. The rest? I cannot say.

* * *

The Wordless Language

_There's quite the abundance of stars tonight..._ Looking at the clear night sky beyond the beaten trail before him, the tactician, sitting cross-legged on dry dirt, flipped through the pages of his journal as the campfire crackled near him. "It's nights like these that make you wonder about the simpler things in life... Wouldn't you agree, Master Rath?" he asked the rugged nomadic acquaintance keeping him company.

The man in question, who was chewing on pieces of dried meat he had gotten from the pouch his mount had been carrying, shot yet another of his icy glares towards him.

_Ugh... Dammit._ Mark, disappointed in himself for yet another failed approach, made a dull hum as he frowned at the less-that-ideal response.

Earlier that day, he had been treated to the sight of a bonfire-in-progress at Castle Araphen- with the castle itself as the firewood. One of the suspected perpetrators had tried to rush straight for Lyn's throat, his speed faster than her- much less the advisor's- awareness; the assassin obviously had cared little for his own well-being. Thankfully, the leader of the castle's defense force had crippled the would-be murderer in the nick of time.

After hiring a sharp-eyed, dexterous thief who had been witnessing the spectacle from a nearby villager's home, helping the perpetually-silent horseback archer retake the castle, unceremoniously losing the aid of the marquess who had at that point despised the damage the Dispute had already made to his territory, and gaining the cooperation of the recently-made-ex-captain himself, the Legion now found themselves spending yet another night outdoors, Mark's first plan- resting inside Castle Araphen itself- long since blown _spectacularly_ to tiny little bits.

_Why is this route so hard to access!?_ the tactician mentally exclaimed, referring to the bond he had been trying to establish with the nomad since the latter's inclusion.

Ever since Rath had joined the group, a number of Mark's approaches towards familiarity had earned him only hateful-looking stares; it was almost as if Rath had hated his guts from the very beginning.

Fiddling with the feathery end of the quill that had been inserted before the first page of his journal, he retraced the path of today's memories, looking for the cause of his current predicament...

* * *

_"These brigands are after me. If they're attacking the castle, it's because of me," Lyn said to the Araphen captain, explaining the reason behind her offer to help him mere seconds earlier. "So I must help if I can..."_

_He closed his eyes as he loosened his grip on the reins of his mount, mulling over her words. "It sounds like you're involved somehow..." Opening his eyes once more, his face hardened. "Let's go," he spoke, half requesting and half ordering her._

_"You'll accept our aid?" Lyn wanted to confirm._

_The Crimson Shield, who had arrived just moments after the attempted attack on his mission, frowned ever so slightly at how she was about to endanger herself once more- an expression Mark caught in the corner of his eye._

_"I am Rath of the Kutolah," he introduced himself. "Our tribes may be different, but I will not abandon a woman of the Sacae." He shot a glare at the tactician.

* * *

_

He discovered the clue: it was the leer Rath had sent his way at that exact moment. Why had he said "abandon"? The plainswoman at that time had _offered her aid_- not asked for his. He assumed only two possibilities: either his incompetence in repelling the attack on Lyn had made a horrible first impression on the then-captain- which was, he hated to admit, understandable- or Rath had been holding a negative preconception about him from who-knows-when.

Speculation can only go so far, though, and he needed to break the ice _now_; after all, the thief's shift was fast approaching, and Mark had already sworn to acquire the trust of both newcomers.

Clearing his throat- rather loudly, at that- he looked straight at the Sacaen and began his surefire assault. "Alright, Master Rath, I've _had_ it with your fortified emotional defense. Why in Elimine's name do you _hate me_!?"

Swallowing the dried meat in his mouth, the addressed responded coolly, "What_ever_ do you mean?"

His normally-calm demeanor swiftly shattered as his annoyance flared. "You obviously hold ill will towards me for some reason. Is it mainly because I couldn't save Lady Lyndis from the assassin, or is there something I should _apparently_ know?"

"You really have no clue?" he asked, the tiniest bit of surprise in his tone. "I thought your kind were more observant..."

"Apparently not- _wait_ a second. What group _are_ you referring to, per se?"

"So you _don't_ know," he confirmed.

"Listen, Master Rath, I'd love to word-joust with you all night, but I have one other objective I need to complete and do _not_ intend to have two plans fall apart on me on the exact same day. Put aside the banter and grace me with your knowledge already."

He smirked ever so slightly. "Very well; even _you_ have duties, after all. I had known one other person who had worn attire similar to yours- specifically, a green-colored cloak that had been concealing his body."

_A cloth similar to mine? A fellow _tactician_?_ He had long known about the organization's influence on the continent, so he had been expecting to meet a former comrade sooner or later; he had only hoped that he would _meet-_ not engage- one first. "Go on..." Mark pressed.

"Like you, he, too, had been holding a hidden agenda; _un_like you, he hadn't been as clever as his position had appeared..."

* * *

_"Marquess Araphen, putting your personal feelings aside, surely _you_ can see the benefit of actively cooperating with Lord Lundgren..." Sitting to the right of the castle guard captain- who himself was seated opposite the elderly-looking noble at the far end of the planning table- was a man who wore a forest-green cloak over himself and had shoulder-length blonde hair, thin sideburns on both sides of his face pointed sharply downward. His brown eyes failed to hide his ambitiousness._

_"My 'personal feelings' do not involve Marquess Caelin," the noble harshly corrected him. "Besides, I've no need for whatever _paltry_ reward you've prepared from that region."_

_Desperation seeped into his tone. "But-!"_

_"Silence, _tactician_," he interjected. "Your negotiation skills obviously need honing; if you persist with this conversation, you'll only evoke my pity towards your employers and your superiors. Leave my sight _this instant_."_

_"Tch." He mentally refused to obey the words of the decrepit geezer before him, but even _he_ knew when further persuasion would only hurt his position. He hissed through gritted teeth. "Very well... Good day." Abruptly rising from his seat, he left the presence of the marquess and the nomad. When he was closing the room's door on his way out, he slammed it at the last second._

_A few seconds passed before the blonde-haired elder sighed. "I hate dealing with his kind; even that strategist ally of his- 'Mark', I think- had been more pleasant to converse with."_

_Rath maintained his silence; unless prompted, he knew his liege only needed a pair of ears to blather to right now._

_"Honestly, what does Hausen _see_ in that Cassio boy? He didn't _seem_ as brilliant a mind as his reputation had made him appear. Maybe his organization's standards have lowered..."

* * *

_

_"Cassio"... Was there anyone with that name back at the tacticians' grounds...?_ Mark tried to recall that name, to no avail; he _may_ have made many acquaintances during his training sessions, but his memory chose the worst time to fizzle out.

"Right now, you've made yourself look _much_ more capable than your fellow peer under the same amount of time," Rath quipped. "I can only hope that you'll be consistent with your endeavors, for our group's- much less _Lyn's_- sake."

"Oh, _rest assured_," the advisor emphasized, "I've never failed to fulfill a request, and I _don't_ intend to break that streak anytime soon."

"Only your results can prove just that," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Hmph."

Time passed as the campfire the two were sharing shrunk little by little. Mark ended up being occupied with sketching the nomad's form into his journal; Rath, enjoying his food. The tranquility of their surroundings made the perfect atmosphere for them both.

Eventually, the nomad's shift had reached its end. The person in question was about to stand on his feet, intending to retreat into the sereneness of his makeshift tent.

"Hold on, Master Rath," the advisor spoke, the tone more of a request than an order. "I need your opinion on this." He showed his work, a depiction of the Sacaen's sitting form, to his last-minute model.

He analyzed the sketch. "Accurate," Rath replied simply.

"That's nice to hear. Well, then, good night to you. I'll get your replacement here right away..." He was about to turn towards the thief's location when his eye caught Rath's outstretched hand; a few pieces of dried meat sat on his palm.

"As thanks for your drawing," he explained.

"Ah... Thank you kindly." Accepting his "reward", he chewed on a small portion as he pocketed the rest; it had a distinctly-flavorful taste, and he couldn't stop himself from thoroughly enjoying the juices. "Delicious."

He gave a small hum in agreement. "Good night to you, too, Mark," he said before taking his leave.

The advisor, swallowing the delicacy, was about to retrieve another piece and continue his walk towards Matthew's tent when he felt the sharp edge of a blade being pressed against his back.

"Don't move, Mark- if that _is_ your real name," the thief spoke plainly.

"Good evening to you, too, Master Matthew." At least he didn't need to find Rath's replacement anymore.

* * *

_That_, my friend, was how the first of many heart-to-heart conversations with my first thief acquaintance would start. At least with the _nomad_, I had to maintain initiative; it feels nicer playing the Black King every once in a while.

* * *

Yes: With this, I revive this tale from limbo, a slew of new ideas in my arsenal!


End file.
